


Making Me Dizzy

by asexualrey



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Broken Bones, I'll add more as I go along, M/M, Major Character Injury, Sickfic, Vomiting, there will be more ships too probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9569678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualrey/pseuds/asexualrey
Summary: A collection of illness and injury one-shots that I have nowhere else to put.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> all of the one-shots in this little collection are based on prompts i've received from tumblr. i'll put the prompts at the beginning of each chapter along with any warnings that apply.
> 
> \--
> 
> prompt: _"Okay... Okay, hospital. Hospital, now." Hunk and sick or injured Lance?_
> 
> warning for brief descriptions of a compound fracture and vomiting.

When his phone starts ringing and Lance’s picture fills the screen, Hunk thinks it’s probably because he’s picking up takeout and wants to know if Hunk would prefer egg rolls or fried rice, or something along those lines. It’s getting late and Lance hasn’t gotten in touch with him since this morning before classes, and even though he figured his roommate had probably been at Keith’s, he’d been getting a little worried that Lance hadn’t so much as texted to let him know when he’d be home. 

Hunk perks up a little and sets aside his textbook and pencil. “Hang on a second, Pidge. Lance is calling.”

In the Skype window on his laptop monitor, Pidge throws their head back and groans. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna ditch me for Lance. We still have four problems left.”

“I think he just wants my takeout order. It won’t take long, just wait for a minute.”

“Fine. Tell the idiot I say hi.” 

 “M’kay.” He leans back in his chair and picks up the phone. “What’s up, Lance?”

The first thing he hears is heavy, erratic breathing. “ _H…Hunk?_ ”

Hunk’s stomach flips instantly, a cold sense of dread filling him all the way down to his feet. “What is it?” he asks, shooting to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

In his peripherals, he can see Pidge lift their head and stare hard at him. 

“ _I f—fell off my longboard._ ” Lance’s voice is weak and breathy. “ _I can’t…can’t get up. My arm—_ ”

Hunk rushes for his jacket and keys. “Where are you?” 

More harsh, rapid breathing. “ _Sutton Wood, by the theater—_ ”

“I’m coming.” Hunk’s heart is pounding, throbbing painfully in his chest. “I’m coming. Don’t move, and stay on the phone, okay?”

“ _Okay…_ ”

“Hunk!” comes a tinny call from the kitchenette. “What’s going on?”

Hunk presses his phone to his chest and leans over the table, grabbing the top of the computer. “Lance is hurt. I gotta go.”

Pidge looks stunned, and scared, but nods. “Update me as soon as you can.” 

Hunk gives a single nod in reply before shutting the laptop. 

 

–

 

The drive is excruciating. Hunk keeps Lance on the phone, keeps him talking, though from what Lance has told him, he doesn’t seem to have hit his head. But he’s definitely catatonic, and in a tremendous amount of pain. Every sentence is punctuated by breathy groans and sobs that make Hunk’s chest constrict violently. 

“Where are you hurt?” Hunk had asked. 

“ _I d-don’t know—everywhere_ ,” Lance panted. “ _My arm hurts like a mother—_ ”

“Does it look bad? Is it swollen?” Hunk had tried so hard to keep calm, but his voice had risen a few octaves in panic. 

“ _I can’t look—I threw up—_ ” 

“Okay, don’t worry. You don’t have to look.” Hunk’s mind had raced. “Let’s talk about something else. How are things with Keith?”

It wasn’t too difficult to get Lance’s mind on other things after that, even if he was still whimpering and having a hard time getting his breathing under control. In all honesty, Hunk had wondered more than once when this call would come. Lance longboards casually, but he tends to be reckless with it sometimes, and never wears protective gear no matter how much Hunk nags him about it. 

The longer time goes on before he reaches Lance’s side, the more worried he becomes. He doesn’t know how severely his roommate is injured and it’s hard to keep his mind from going to dark places. 

When he pulls onto the street, his heart slams against his ribcage and his hands are shaking a little. “I’m here, Lance. Where are you exactly?”

“ _By the—by the fence near the theater._ ”

“Okay. I’m coming.” Hunk parks the car on the side of the road and nearly rips off the door in his haste to get out. He sprints past the empty outlets and past the old theater that’s long been out of business. Lance sometimes passes through this small abandoned part of town as a shortcut to their apartment complex from campus, but only when he boards to school, since there are parts of the road that are torn up. 

He sees Lance’s legs sprawled on the concrete sidewalk before he rounds the corner of the building. And then—finally—he sees his best friend in full, propped up against the chainlink. 

“Oh, Lance,” he breathes, his stomach dropping to his feet.

He looks bad— _really_ bad. The first thing Hunk registers is terrible road rash that tears up nearly his entire right side. He’s dressed in a tank top and board shorts, so his flesh must’ve been at the complete mercy of the asphalt when he fell. His skin and clothes are smeared with blood and there’s a puddle of vomit beside him, drying in the sun. He’s leaning listlessly against the fence, phone still in his left hand. 

When his eyes meet Hunk’s, there’s immediate relief. “Thanks for coming,” he says in a quiet and frankly pitiful tone of voice. 

Hunk drops into a crouch beside him and reaches out to touch the uninjured side of his head. “No problem, buddy. Everything’s gonna be just fine, okay?”

Lance nods, complete and utter trust in his expression. 

Inside, Hunk is trying so hard not to panic. His heart is hurting for his best friend—it’s never easy on him to see any of his friends in pain, but Lance holds a special place. Seeing the fear in his eyes, though, ignites a protective instinct inside of Hunk that lends him the strength needed to put aside his own fear and take care of Lance. 

“You look like shit,” he says, trying for a lighthearted tone. “I keep telling you to wear more clothes when you ride.”

Lance smiles weakly. “Maybe I’ll listen next time.” 

Hunk moves his hand down to Lance’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Let me have a look at that arm, okay?”

Lance visibly pales, but he gives a nod. “Just…just don’t touch it.”

“I won’t touch it, buddy.” He moves around to Lance’s right side and lets his eyes travel from the horribly mangled mess of his shoulder down his bicep, and finally to his forearm.

And he feels the blood drain from own face. “Okay… Okay, hospital. Hospital, _now_.”

The look that comes over Lance’s face is one of pure terror. Hunk instantly regrets letting the panic back into his voice, but there was no way to stop it. He understands why Lance had thrown up—he wants to vomit himself. He feels faint.

There’s bone jutting out from the skin of Lance’s arm. It’s bent at a horrific angle, and it’s still bleeding. It’s all Hunk can do to stop himself from gagging. 

And then, before he can say anything more, Lance’s eyes flicker down to the injury. It’s probably an involuntary reaction, and Hunk isn’t quick enough to stop it. Lance instantly doubles over and throws up again. 

In a flash, Hunk is back on his left side, carefully embracing his Lance’s body and pulling his head to his chest to shield him from the grotesque injury. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” he soothes. “Don’t look. It’s okay. You’re fine, you’re fine.”

With the hand that isn’t cradling Lance’s head, he opens his phone and dials 911. 

Lance sobs into his chest. Hunk hopes he can’t feel the way his hands are shaking. 

He speaks calmly to the dispatcher, and as soon as he’s off the phone, he uses the other hand to comb through Lance’s hair. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Lance. There’s an ambulance on the way, and they’ll take care of you. I bet you’re gonna get a sick cast. Everyone’ll want to draw on it.” He’s rambling, talking to his nineteen-year-old roommate like he’s a small child, but he knows it will help take both their minds off of the situation. “Keith’s probably gonna yell at you. Actually, _everyone_ is probably gonna yell at you—damn, you’re gonna get yelled at by Keith, Pidge, Shiro,  _and_ Allura. That’s gonna suck.”

He feels Lance huff out a pathetic, barely-there laugh, but a laugh nonetheless, and the knot in his gut loosens just a little. 

“I won’t yell at you, though,” he continues. “And we’ll all have to take extra-good care of you for a little while. You can make Keith do everything for you; you won’t be able to use your right hand, so he’ll have to take your notes and brush your teeth and basically do whatever you want. And you know Shiro’s gonna be buying you anything you ask him for for a week, at least—he can’t help it, it’s how he shows he cares. I’d milk it if I were you.” 

Lance is breathing a little easier now, and the tremors are dying down. Hunk keeps talking about anything that comes to his mind. 

Eventually the ambulance comes, pulls up the road as far as it can get, and the paramedics swarm over to take care of Lance. Hunk makes sure to stay beside as long as possible to keep him from panicking again; he even gets to ride in the ambulance. 

They’ll have to operate on the arm, they say. Hunk had known that, but hearing it still turns his stomach. They’re in for a long ride. 

When he finally has a minute to breathe, he sees that there are five texts from Pidge, three missed calls from Keith, and one call and two texts from Shiro. He’s not looking forward to telling them what happened. 

Right now, though, his only concern is being there for Lance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _"hey, woah don't pass out on me here" platonic shance?_
> 
> brief mention of vomiting.

Lance groans and curls tighter into himself. He can feel the sun beating down on him, warming his already overheated skin, but it can’t touch the chill that’s freezing him from the inside out. His marrow is ice in his bones and he can’t stop trembling. The mild spring breeze feels like a blizzard wind from goddamn Antarctica.

He’s sitting on a bench outside his lecture hall, bent over at the waist with his forehead touching his knees, clutching his backpack to his chest like that might stop the world from rocking and spinning around him. He’d already thrown up in the trash bin outside his classroom after bolting out with no warning and had since decided that there was no coming back to this place. Ever. Some girl had seen him puking his guts up and took pity on him—and feeling a stranger touch his back and ask if he was okay, if he needed help or if she needed to call someone for him while he was disoriented and vulnerable and in pain had not exactly been a welcomed turn of events.

What had been even more unwelcome was the fact that he actually needed her help. He’d been in no shape to turn her away and, frankly, the sudden bout of illness had been terrifying, so he’d heard himself giving her a number and then she was talking on the phone, saying things like, “I’m calling for Lance. He’s not feeling too well right now,” and, “Yeah, he’s been vomiting and he’s running a pretty high fever…” and finally, “Okay, I’ll tell him. No problem.”

The girl—Lance hadn’t even been able to see straight enough to discern whether he’d seen her around before or not—had taken him to the bench and told him that his friend was on the way to get him, and would he be okay without her? He must have said yes, because she left after that.

It feels like he’s been sitting here forever. There’s an awful throbbing ache behind his eyes, pulsing in his temples, and his throat is burning so badly that his eyes water every time he swallows. There’s no strength in his limbs—his arms tremble as they clutch his backpack and he’s almost surprised he’s still upright at all—and he aches all over and his head’s spinning like a top and he’s just so fucking _cold_. He can’t wait to be in bed.

The breeze picks up again and an unbidden whimper leaves his mouth. He must look pathetic like this, all slumped over on a campus bench and hugging his backpack, shivering uncontrollably and now _whining_. He’s nineteen years old; he should be able to get his ass home on his own. But he really feels like hell and honestly isn’t sure he’d be able to stand right now anyway.

The minutes run together and it feels like a long time before he hears heavy footsteps approach him.

“Lance?”

Shiro’s voice sounds slightly alarmed. Lance doesn’t lift his head until he feels one hand on his back and another come up to cradle his forehead. He looks up woozily and sees Shiro’s face blurring in and out of focus. Lance can tell that he’s frowning.

“That’s quite a fever you got there, buddy,” he says. “Think you can make it to the car?”

“Yeah.” Lance nods blearily. “I’m okay.”

Shiro hums uncertainly and slings Lance’s backpack over his shoulder before wrapping both hands around Lance’s bicep and slowly rising to his feet. Black dots cloud Lance’s vision and he staggers a bit until Shiro steadies him by wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Whoa, don’t pass out on me here,” the older man says. Lance can almost see his concerned, fatherly expression. “How in the world did you even make it into class today?” 

“Like I always do,” Lance slurs, desperately ignoring the way his head feels so light, how the ground tilts under his feet. “Didn’t feel too bad ‘til I got here.”

“You should’ve gone home before it got this bad.” Shiro sounds worried. “I don’t like getting calls from strangers telling me you need me to come pick you up because you’re too sick to get home by yourself.”

“M’sorry.” His voice comes out breathy and quiet as whatever strength he has left drains quickly from the effort of putting one foot in front of the other. Heat prickles down his back, behind his eyes, tingles in his hands, and an encroaching blackness spreads across his vision. He can feel the blood draining from his face completely, leaving his head cold and clammy and far too light.

God, he really needs to sit down.

“Lance!” 

Shiro’s voice sounds much farther away than it had a few seconds ago.

Lance is breathing hard, gasping for air in an attempt to clear away the dizziness in his head. It takes a worrying amount of time, but the black dots eventually begin to clear away, and when he can see again he finds that he’s sitting on the hot pavement with his head between his knees and Shiro’s firm hands on his shoulder and the back of his neck.

After a few minutes of sweating and panting, Lance lifts his aching head. Shiro is right there, staring at him with eyes blown wide and more fear than Lance has ever seen from him. “Lance? Can you hear me?” he shouts, voice raw. “Answer me!”

“Sorry,” Lance says dizzily. “I’m… I don’t feel good.”

Shiro’s face softens in sympathy. “I know, buddy, I know. We’re gonna get you home, don’t worry. Do you think you can eat a little bit before we try standing up again?”

Lance nods, even though he isn’t sure. A granola bar is put into his hand and he nibbles at it halfheartedly while Shiro rubs a hand across his back.

He can’t even make it to the car. He gets dizzy again immediately upon standing and Shiro has to carry him and buckle him in the passenger seat like some little kid. Thankfully, by then, he’s not even coherent enough to be embarrassed about it. He just wants to be in bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _“Please, just stop working. You’re going to overwork yourself.” shiro/matt maybe?_

Shiro jolts awake and finds himself looking at the darkened TV. It takes a moment to remember exactly what he was doing before he fell asleep and why he suddenly woke up—

Then he hears a stifled cough and sees the glow of a laptop screen in the dark at the kitchen table. 

Right.

He slowly pushes himself upright on the couch and stretches his arms over his head before standing and making his way to the table. 

“You should go to bed.” Matt doesn’t even look up from the monitor as he says this, eyes hidden behind the light glinting off his glasses. 

“No, you should go to bed,” he replies. “You’ve hardly slept over the last couple of days. It’s not healthy.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m done with my thesis.”

Shiro frowns, eyes appraising the thin body hunched over the keyboard. Matt’s wearing Shiro’s high school sweatshirt, the thick material far too large and hanging off his narrow shoulders. It’s cute, but at the moment it just makes him look small and frail, especially combined with how messy and ruffled his hair has become. His glasses sit askew on his nose. The lenses obscure his eyes, but Shiro knows how tired they’d look if he could see them. There are several mostly-empty coffee cups scattered around his workspace, a testament to how long he’s been going without proper rest. 

He’s worried for his boyfriend. He knows Matt’s work habits when it comes to school—once he’s focused on something, it would take a natural disaster to break his concentration. Especially if he’s got a deadline. 

“Sleeping through the night isn’t going to hurt anything,” Shiro says. “You still have a week before it’s due, right? And you’re almost done.”

“Five days.” 

Shiro sighs. “That’s still plenty of time. Come on, pulling three all-nighters in a row isn’t going to help you write a better paper.”

Matt doesn’t answer, and Shiro knows that he knows he’s right but won’t admit it. 

He worries at his lip. “At least eat something substantial. What have you had recently besides coffee?”

“I had a banana.” 

“When?”

Matt opens his mouth to reply, but hesitates and snaps it shut again. He ducks his head. “Uh…this morning, maybe?”

“ _Matt_ ,” Shiro groans. 

“It’s fine, it’s fine. I’m not hungry anyway.” He sniffs and wipes his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Go on to bed, Takashi. There’s no reason for you to stay up with me.”

“Someone has to make sure you take care of yourself.”

“I’m fine. I’ll catch up on sleep when this is done. I promise.”

“Matt.” Shiro sits down in a chair beside him and leans forward intently. “Please, just stop working and come to bed for a few hours. You’re going to overwork yourself.”

“No, I won’t. I’m _fine_ , Takashi. If I get enough done, I’ll sleep tomorrow, okay?”

Shiro sighs again and rubs a hand over his eyes. It’s two in the morning and he really is tired, too tired to stay up any longer to fight a losing battle with Matt. It’s clear the boy isn’t going to listen to him. “Fine. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Matt peels his gaze away from the laptop to give him a quick kiss. “Goodnight. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Shiro falls into bed wearily. It’s empty without Matt. 

 

—

 

His alarm goes off at eight the next morning and he groans as he rolls over to turn it off. He’s usually pretty good about getting more than six hours of sleep a night, but with Matt acting like an idiot he’s been more inclined to stay up with him. Although that probably isn’t too smart either. At least one of them should conduct themselves like an actual adult and try to stay well-rested.

He gets up and splashes water on his face before going to the kitchen to make coffee, assuming Matt hasn’t already done that, and pulls a T-shirt on over his head as he exits the bedroom.

Matt is exactly where he left him last night at the kitchen table, slumped in front of his laptop with his glasses pushed up to the top of his head. His hair’s a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it consistently. Shiro sighs affectionately. “Good morning. Did you get any sleep at all?”

The smaller boy doesn’t look up from his keyboard, which is strange. “Uh…no.” 

Shiro frowns and tilts his head. Matt’s voice doesn’t sound right. It’s quiet and raspy and low, which could be attributed to his third consecutive all-nighter, but he’s sitting hunched over it almost looks like he’s shivering. “You okay?”

Matt nods mechanically. He turns to grip the back of the chair and begins to stand. “Yeah. I just…need some food, I think.”

By now it’s obvious that something’s wrong, something beyond mere exhaustion. Shiro takes a step forward. “I can get it for you. What do you want?”

“It’s okay. I’ll get it.” Matt extracts himself from under the table, his movements slow and calculated, like he’s focusing very hard on them. He takes a step toward the kitchen and falters, catching himself with one hand against the wall. 

Shiro’s brows furrow as he moves toward the boy. “What’s wrong? Is your leg bothering you?” 

Matt doesn’t answer. He stops and stares at the floor, hair covering his eyes. 

Shiro feels a jolt of panic. “Matt?”

Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, Matt collapses. His body makes a sickening thud on the floorboards. 

Shiro’s eyes widen. “Matt?!” 

The boy doesn’t stir. He’s still as stone, lying face-down, a tiny heap in a giant sweatshirt. 

Suddenly Shiro’s _there_ , beside him, without a memory of rushing over. His stomach jumps into his throat when he puts his hand on Matt’s thin shoulder and he still doesn’t respond. He shakes him as hard as he dares. “Matt! Matt, what’s wrong? Can you hear me?” 

He turns Matt onto his back and is alarmed by the sickened pallor of his skin. With his glasses on the top of his head, Shiro has a full view of the dark bruises underneath his eyes. There’s a reddened flush spread across his cheeks and nose and hair curls at his temples where his skin is damp with sweat. He’s shaking a bit. 

Shiro curses. How could he have missed the fact that Matt was getting sick? It’s obvious this hadn’t come on in the few hours he’d been sleeping. “Matt! Wake up!” 

The boy groans pitifully. It takes a few long, heart-stopping moments, but his eyelids finally flutter and open to reveal glazed amber irises. He looks dazed and confused. “Ta-Takashi—wha—” His voice, scratchy and hoarse, breaks off into a fit of coughing that wrings his frame until he’s shaking. He hugs his ribcage and pants heavily when it passes, whimpers of pain punctuating every wheeze. 

Shiro scoops him up into a sitting position, keeping one arm wrapped around his supportively shoulders. “Matt, god, you scared the shit out of me. What’s going on? Are you okay?” 

“I—I—I don’t know,” Matt rasps. He’s so weak, can barely keep his eyes open, can barely speak. “Wh’happened?”

“You fainted. I knew you were tired but I didn’t… Christ, you’re burning up.” Shiro’s chest constricts painfully at the searing heat on his palm when he presses it to Matt’s forehead. It’s always so hard to see him in pain, no matter how many times he comes home to find his boyfriend on the couch with his bad leg propped up, an ice bag on the knee, gritting his teeth through the pain. He hates to make him talk when he’s so clearly exhausted and out of it, but he doesn’t want to let him sleep again until he’s assessed his condition. “Have you not been feeling well?”

Matt’s eyelids flutter again. “I’ve been…been tired.”

A quick, fleeting smile tugs at the corners of Shiro’s mouth. “Yeah, I know that. How long have you been feeling sick?”

“Yesterday…maybe? I dunno…”

Shiro exhales, the frown returning. “You should’ve said something.” He takes off Matt’s glasses and combs flaxen hair away from his forehead. “Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”

Matt breathes out through his mouth, chest crackling as it turns into coughing, and closes his eyes. His brow is creased in pain; he looks so miserable and so _sick_. Shiro’s beating himself up inside for not catching this sooner. “I’m dizzy and my head hurts…and my throat hurts, and my chest…” He breathes in and Shiro can hear the rattle in his lungs. 

A cold sense of dread rolls down Shiro’s spine. He tightens his grip on Matt’s back with one arm and hooks the other under his knees. “Okay, I’m gonna stand up now and we’re gonna get you to bed.” 

Matt’s head sags limply against Shiro’s broad shoulder. “My thesis—”

“Can wait. I think you’ve given yourself pneumonia.” He stands slowly, the thin boy in his arms. It’s kind of alarming how light he is. 

Matt wheezes lightly as he takes him to the bedroom. Shiro’s heart is thudding in worry. He can feel the feverish body shaking against him, can feel the sickly heat radiating from his clammy skin. Matt gets sick every so often, sure—he never gets enough rest no matter how much Shiro nags which makes him susceptible to almost every cold that’s passed around campus—but he’s never seen him sick like this before. He keeps seeing him drop to the floor, limp as a doll, and the listless look in his fever-bright eyes is scaring Shiro more than he wants to admit. 

He lays him on the bed carefully and pulls the covers up to his shoulders, making sure he’s comfortable before stepping out to grab the only medicine in the apartment, the thermometer, and a glass of water. It takes a bit of coaxing to get Matt to take the medicine, and the thermometer yields a concerning 103.3 degrees. 

Shiro frowns worriedly and slips it back in its case. “I think I’m going to take you to the doctor later.”

The smaller boy coughs again. “I’ll be fine, Takashi. I think it’s just…just a cold.”

“It’s not just a cold, Matt.” Shiro smoothes a hand over wheat-colored hair. “I told you to not to work yourself so hard.”

“S-sorry.” 

He looks more exhausted than Shiro’s ever seen him. His face is so flushed and clammy that sweat rolls down from his temple and his mouth is open to accommodate his labored breathing. Shiro knows he’ll probably be making a call to Matt’s father before the day is over. How in the world is he going to tell him that he let this happen? 

He leans over and plants a lingering kiss on his too-hot brow. “Do you need anything?”

Matt shakes his head lethargically, but finally opens his eyes again. “M’sorry…I didn’t mean for this to happen. You should go on to class.”

Shiro sits up in surprise. “I’m not leaving you like this. Your sister would kill me.”

This earns a small smile. “Call her. I d…don’t want you to miss class.”

“It’s fine for today. I’d much rather keep an eye on you.” He strokes a thumb over Matt’s cheekbone. “Now get some sleep. I’m going to make you a doctor’s appointment, so you’ll need your energy.”

He gives the closest thing he can to a huff, which just ends in another coughing fit. 

“I mean it, Matt. The best thing for you right now is rest, so I’m confiscating your laptop.”

Matt barely has the energy to pout. “Not fair.”

“I’m just looking out for you. Are you sure you don’t need anything before you go to sleep? Anything to eat or drink?”

He shakes his head again, burying his nose in the neck of the sweatshirt. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Shiro smiles weakly and gives a breath of a laugh before tugging lightly on a lock of his boyfriend’s hair. “Go. To. Sleep.”

“Okay, okay.” A warm rush of affection floods Shiro’s stomach as he watches Matt snuggle down into the comforter, pulling it up to his ears. 

Once he’s sure the boy is well on his way to sleep, he quietly exits the room. He’s glad that Matt is finally getting the rest he’s deprived himself of for so long, but he knows the sound of his limp body hitting the floor will not be easy to forget. He’ll have to do better in the future. He’ll take care of Matt, no matter what it takes. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _"Man, you look like shit." "Wow, thanks."_ (klance)

The kitchenette’s full of the scent of strong coffee when he stumbles into it. Keith’s at the stove, prying a burnt puddle of pancake batter off the bottom of a skillet that he probably hadn’t buttered with their one spatula. He looks up when Lance comes in. “Morning. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Lance mumbles back. He gropes blindly in the cupboard for a mug and closes his fingers around the first handle they find. 

“I’m making pancakes.”

“Hm.”

The blackened, vaguely-circular mess he has piled on a plate can hardly count as “pancakes,” though normally Lance would eat them without a complaint. Today, though, they look about as appetizing as a plateful of wet sand. He really doesn’t feel up to eating anything. 

His hand trembles as he lifts the coffee pot, and the coffee goes everywhere when he tries to pour it, but Keith doesn’t notice so he doesn’t bother to clean it up. He really just wants to go back to bed.

It had been…a rough night, to say the least. Two monster papers and three qualifying exams in one week had resulted in very little sleep and a whole lot of stress, which in turn had resulted in waking up yesterday with the sorest throat ever and a headache the size of Texas. And that, in turn, of course meant that instead of getting some much needed rest, he was kept up all fucking night with a relentless cough and pain and not being able to breathe through his nose and _pain_. And it’s Tuesday, which means he doesn’t get a break.

Honestly, it’s not fair.

When he remembers to finally look up from the coffee stains on the counter, Keith is staring at him. Intently. His brow is scrunched up and his mouth is puckered. “Man, you look like shit.”

Lance doesn’t have to try hard to give him a deadpan look. “Wow, thanks.” It would have come out a lot more favorably if his voice wasn’t almost completely destroyed. 

Keith winces. “You’re not planning on going to class, are you?”

“Um. Yeah?” Why is Keith so dumb? Of course he’s going to class. He’s barely maintaining B’s in most of them. His GPA can’t afford to let them drop.

His boyfriend frowns sharply. “Lance. You were up all night coughing and you look like you’re about to pass out. And you’re _contagious_. You’re not going to class like this.”

“I have to turn in my—”

“I can do it for you,” Keith interrupts. “Just email your professors. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Lance still isn’t convinced. His grades are a valid concern. His grades, yes, but something else is putting him off, too.

“Jeez.” Keith rolls his eyes and pushes himself off the counter. “I never thought I’d have this much trouble convincing you to miss class.” He reaches up and presses his palm to Lance’s forehead, then moves it down to his cheek. “Christ, Lance, you’re burning up. There’s no way in hell you’re going to make it to school like this, whether you want to or not.”

Lance sighs, because he’s _right_ , and he’s kind of known that the whole time, but… “I don’t want to stay here by myself all day.”

Keith’s eyes soften. A small grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Then I guess it’s lucky I don’t have any classes today. Did you forget?”

Lance blinks. Right…that’s right. It’s Tuesday. Keith only has classes three days a week. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_.” Keith takes the coffee mug from his hand and begins to steer him towards the bedroom by his elbow. “I’ll be here to take care of you all day. Now go back to bed before you fall over, and I’ll bring you some medicine. Do you want pancakes?”

His chest feels warm, fluttery, underneath the tightness and congestion. “No thanks.”

When he’s in bed, Keith pulls the quilt up to his shoulders and plants a kiss on his burning brow. “Do you want something else?”

“Orange juice?”

“Sure, babe.” 

He hears the door open and shut as Keith leaves, but doesn’t bother opening his eyes. He coughs hard into his pillow, groaning at the crackling he feels in his chest and the pain in his throat. His head throbs. Distantly, he wonders if this is one of the regular chest colds he gets a couple times a year, or if it’s something else. His mother always warned him about not getting enough sleep.

When Keith gets back a short time later, he’s still coughing. 

“That sounds like it’s getting worse,” he says, worry in his voice. His fingers card through Lance’s hair.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Lance murmurs. He doesn’t really know that, because he sure as hell doesn’t _feel_ fine, but chances are he’ll be better in a few days. He’s not much of a worrier. 

“Hmm.” Keith doesn’t sound so sure, but doesn’t say anything further. 

He helps Lance sit up to drink his orange juice and take his medicine before prodding the thermometer into his mouth. He ends up lying back down and closing his eyes before it beeps, because he’s suddenly overwhelmingly sleepy, but he hears Keith make a noise of concern once it’s taken the reading.

“If this doesn’t go down before tomorrow, I’m taking you to the doctor.”

Lance hums even though he’s not really paying attention. He’s enjoying the feeling of Keith playing with his hair way too much.

Keith sighs, and the mattress dips as he bends down to kiss Lance again. “Go on to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _Klance - They told me you passed out. How do you feel?_

Keith hadn’t thought much of the crowd that had gathered out by the baseball field earlier that day before lunch. He’d only seen it through the window while he was out for a bathroom break, and his mind had been on the pop quiz he’d just taken that he’s pretty sure he failed. There’s nothing particularly unusual about seeing a crowd out by the baseball field. 

At least, he hadn’t thought so until he got to his next class. He sits near the front by the wall. He’s got his back leaned against the white painted cinderblock and is reading the sci-fi novel Shiro lent him when his ear catches a snippet of conversation behind him from two boys and a girl he’s never spoken to in his life. 

“That was scary. I hope nothing’s really wrong.”

“Yeah. What exactly happened, anyway? I was on the other side of the field. All I saw was people suddenly running over there.”  


“I was standing right there but I don’t even know what happened. He was up next to bat and he was just standing there, staring at the ground, and then he just sorta started…tilting. Dillon tried to catch him but he couldn’t get there in time.”  


They must be talking about that scene on the baseball field, Keith realizes distantly. He’s really only half-listening. 

“Who was it again?” 

“That loud guy that’s in your algebra class, right, Casey?”  


“Yeah, I think his name is Lance. He’s usually such a cheery guy, it was freaky seeing him so out of it like that.”  


Keith’s book slips from his fingers and hits the floor with a quiet thud. He whirls around in his seat. “Wait, what are you talking about?” he all but demands.

The urgency in his voice startles the group. The girl blinks large brown eyes at him and and a blond kid looks mildly offended at being interrupted. 

The third boy—a guy from his sixth period history class, Keith thinks—is the one who speaks up first. “Oh, you’re friends with Lance, aren’t you? Yeah, he passed out in P.E. last period. Don’t know why, though. The teachers were making a huge fuss. I think he’s still in the nurse’s office—”

Keith doesn’t wait for him to finish. He scoops up his fallen book and backpack and makes a beeline for the door just as the teacher’s coming in to start class. She calls after him, but it doesn’t register. He tears down the hallway, heart suddenly pounding so hard it feels like his body is vibrating with the beat. 

That idiot better be okay.

The nurse’s office is dead quiet when he enters. The desk is empty, as are the first two of the three beds sanctioned off by curtains. He makes his way to the end of the row and peeks behind the last sheet slowly, almost afraid of what he’ll find. 

He sees Lance’s shoe first, at the end of the cot, and he doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or panicked. Part of him had been hoping that those kids had mixed up Lance with someone else, but that is definitely Lance’s shoe. 

He’s lying on his side, back turned away from Keith. His chest rises and falls with gentle breaths, but even from here Keith can tell they’re too strained. 

“Lance?” he says tentatively. If the boy is sleeping, he doesn’t want to wake him.  


It takes a second or two, but Lance does stir, shifting stiffly and rolling his head back to see who is behind him. He blinks blearily, obviously half-asleep. “Keith?”

“Lance, god, what happened?” He drops his bag and gets down beside the bed.  


Lance looks awful, drained and exhausted in every sense of the word. His normally radiant brown skin is washed out and pale, which only makes the bruised bags under his eyes darker by comparison. On top of that, he’s flushed and sweaty and his hair is a right mess. 

Despite all that, Lance manages to roll over the rest of the way and flash Keith a sarcastic smile. “I have the flu. Surpriiiise,” he rasps, waving his hands weakly. 

Even his voice screams of illness. Something in Keith’s chest squeezes tightly. He presses his palm to Lance’s brow, and his eyes widen. He hadn’t expected his fever to be that high. “They told me you passed out. How do you feel?”

“I’m fine,” he says, though a series of coughs belies that claim. “It wasn’t a big deal. I just got lightheaded.”  


Keith frowns. “From what I heard, you gave your entire P.E. class a heart attack.” 

“Doesn’t matter.” He closes his eyes. “I’ll be fine. My mom’s coming to pick me up when she gets off work.”  


Keith’s eyes wander over the boy’s pallid face. There are subtle signs of strain in the turn of his mouth, in between his brows and around his eyes, and he wouldn’t have noticed them if he didn’t spend so much time staring at this face. He leans forward and presses a kiss to the burning forehead. “You’re a fucking idiot, Lance. You’re supposed to tell someone when you don’t feel well.”  


“Mm,” Lance moans. “I thought it was a cold. It came on so fast…”  


Keith sighs. On one hand, he’s glad it didn’t turn out to be more serious—his imagination was starting to run away with worst-case scenarios—but on the other hand, he’s still worried for Lance’s wellbeing. 

“I guess this means I’ll just have to come over to your house to take care of you. Make sure you don’t do anything else stupid.”

Lance beams, as brightly as he can while sick and exhausted. “Guess so.”

“But since you’re going to be okay, I gotta get back to class.”  


“Mkay.” Lance opens his eyes again and looks up at Keith imploringly. “Can I have a goodbye kiss?”  


Keith rolls his eyes, but plants one more long, firm kiss to Lance’s brow. “I’ll see you after school, okay? Love you.”

“Love you too,” Lance murmurs, looking on the verge of sleep.   


Keith leaves the office quietly, much calmer than when he entered.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _"This is gonna hurt..." lance and Keith (Keith is hurt) thank you!_
> 
> warnings: blood, pain

“Slow down, slow down, slow down, _slow down_ —”

Lance puts weight in his heels, digs them into the dusty ground, doing his best to stop their momentum down the incline. Rocks scatter down the sharp stones as their feet scramble. It takes a bit of stumbling on Lance’s part, but he successfully slows their pace until they come to a halt. “Sorry,” he pants. “You okay?”

Keith leans over, the arm that’s not around Lance’s shoulders wrapping around his abdomen. He lowers his head until Lance can only see the top of it and groans in pain.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Lance murmurs, more to himself. Worry for Keith swells in his chest, but the need to escape the robots chasing them wars for his dominant concern. 

“I’m alright,” Keith grunts, his voice raw and strained. “I’m good. We need to keep going. Just—can we go a little slower?”

Lance nods, tightening his grip around Keith’s waist just a little. “No problem.” 

Keith makes a high, thin noise when they start off again. It’s just sheer bad luck that this planet is made of such uneven, rocky terrain. Lance doesn’t even want to think about how jarring the walking must be for Keith. 

“ _Lance, what’s your status?_ ” Shiro’s voice comes through his earpiece.

“Uh, running, currently.” Lance glances nervously over his shoulder again. “Trying to find a place to hide.”

“ _How’s Keith?_ ” 

“I’m fine, Shiro,” Keith grumbles. 

“ _I was talking to Lance._ ”

“He’s…” Lance gives Keith a sideways look, notes the clench of his jaw and the rivulets of sweat running down his face. “In pain. But still goin.’”

Lance can hear exactly how frustrated their leader is by this situation in the way he’s huffing out his breath. “ _Please let me know as soon as you’re safe. I’ll drop what I’m doing in a second if you need me._ ” 

“Don’t worry about us. You’ve got an important job to do. We’ll be fine.”

Today has been one misfortune after another. Shiro, Lance, and Keith had been tasked with infiltrating a Galra command center that had recently been built right in the center of a desert village to plant a bug in the system, some virus Pidge had come up with that would allow access to their data files. Pidge and Hunk stayed on the castleship to hack into the system from above and download as many files as possible when the signal was sent out. 

Sneaking in had been relatively easy at first. It was when they found the doors to the central computer hub that things had gone downhill. Keith hadn’t been able to gain access to the inner terminals, so they’d had to resort to using Shiro’s hand. They should have foreseen the issue with that, but even if they had, they really didn’t have any other options. 

It didn’t take long for the alarms to start blaring, for sentries and Galra alike to start flooding the hallways. Without a second’s hesitation, Keith had pushed Shiro inside the control room and sealed the door. The decision made sense; Pidge’s corrupted files had been stored in Shiro’s arm, so he was the only one who could finish the mission at that point. Keith and Lance had only come for defense. 

They’d held their own for a while. Keith battled at the front while Lance blasted oncoming enemies from behind. They fought well together. 

And then Keith had been wounded. Lance didn’t see it happen, but he certainly heard his scream of agony and turned in time to see the red paladin crumple to the floor. He can still feel the horrified chill that had surged through his entire body. Without thinking, he’d dragged Keith up roughly by the arm and slung him over one shoulder with strength he didn’t know he had, forcibly ignoring the cries of agony that spilled from his teammate’s lips. 

And then, somehow, he’d gotten them out. Maybe his desperation gave him some sort of superhuman ability, or maybe they’d picked off more soldiers than he thought. He didn’t question it. All that mattered was that they were out of the immediate line of fire, and they’d successfully pulled the enemy’s attention off of Shiro, and that, now, Keith will soon get the medical attention he needs. If things go well.

He’s sure the entire base’s forces are out looking for them, but for the moment, there are no pursuers directly in sight. There _has_ to be some sort of cave somewhere near here where they can hide out for a little while, just until Shiro’s finished. 

They reach the bottom of the steep ravine and Lance scans the rock with keen eyes. Keith’s wheezy, labored panting makes his stomach twist into anxious knots. 

Then, finally, his gaze lights on a crevice in the stone walls. _There_. He hoists Keith up, gets a better grip on his waist. “Come on, buddy. I see a place. Just a little further.”

Keith grunts again as Lance steers them toward the fracture in the rock. His feet are dragging now, and he’s leaning even more heavily against Lance as his strength drains away. Lance wonders if he should try to carry him again, but dismisses the idea quickly. It would only be more painful, and he can’t climb these rocks carrying a body. 

It’s slow going, navigating the unstable ravine. Keith is obviously trying his hardest to get through on his own strength, but almost every movement has him gasping in pain, clutching at his abdomen, and he stumbles a lot. Lance can feel the crease between his brows growing deeper as they make their way towards the cave. 

When they finally reach it, he lowers Keith down first. It’s a narrow opening, but big enough for them to fit through. Keith makes pitiful pained noises as he gets onto his back and slides inside. Lance follows quickly, and once they’re out of sight, he feels a huge weight lift from his shoulders—physically and mentally. 

“We’re hidden, Shiro,” he says into the comm. “I think we’ll be okay here for a while.”

“ _Glad to hear it_.” Shiro’s voice sounds relieved. “ _Is Keith alright?_ ”

Lance looks down at his companion. He hasn’t yet had the chance to assess the wound, and now that he can finally focus, he realizes just how much Keith has been bleeding this whole time. He pales. _I really hope we didn’t leave a trail of blood behind_. “Uh, I wouldn’t jump straight to _alright_.” 

Keith is pale. He can tell before even removing his helmet. Sweat glistens at his hairline, leaks down his face. His features are tight and contorted with pain, mouth open to accommodate his heavy, noisy breathing. His hands are visibly trembling where they clutch at his wound. There’s blood smeared all over them, all over his armor. 

Shiro goes from sounding relieved to immensely worried once again. “ _How bad is it?_ ”

“Not sure yet.” Lance gets to work while he speaks, gently removing Keith’s helmet and pulling out a small supply of medical equipment from the pouches on his belt. “Let me focus on stopping the bleeding and I’ll get back to you.”

“ _Right. Of course. Take care of him, Lance._ ” 

“You got it, captain.”

Keith lies on the ground listlessly while Lance takes a small knife and cuts away the material of the black underarmor to fully uncover the wound. When the light beams from his helmet finally illuminate the extent of the damage, he winces. The laceration punctures the skin just under Keith’s ribs on his left side. It’s not a very large cut, but Lance is betting it’s deeper than it looks. He knows how the Galra fight. It’s bleeding profusely, and distantly he realizes it’s a miracle that Keith was able to make it this far without blacking out first. His admiration for the red paladin’s strength and tenacity grows a little. 

Now comes the _really_ unpleasant part. He takes some sterile cloth and covers it with light blue Altean antiseptic cream, which _looks_  like it would sting less than the solutions usually used on Earth, but Lance knows from experience that it definitely does _not_. He holds it over Keith’s wound and tenses in preparation. “This is gonna hurt…”

Keith’s reaction is instantaneous. As soon as the fabric comes into contact with the wound, his body jerks upward and he screams like he’s being ripped apart. 

“Shh!” Lance holds one hand over the wound and uses the other to clamp over Keith’s mouth. 

Keith’s in too much pain to listen. He howls, back arching off the ground and hands scrabbling for something to hold onto. The raw sounds of agony tearing from his throat make Lance feel nauseous, but he reminds himself that this is something that has to happen. He won’t let Keith die from infection before they get off this dusty piece of floating rock. 

He begins to breathe again once Keith’s screams quiet down, even if they devolve into pitiful sobbing and gasping. Lance honestly feels terrible. He knows just how badly the antiseptic cream hurts, but he also knows that it works. 

He keeps pressure on the wound until the flow of blood slows, until he’s assured that Keith isn’t going to bleed out soon, and then secures the dressing by tying a bandage tightly around Keith’s middle. Once he’s sure it’s in place, he crawls to the mouth of the cave and peeks out cautiously, turning off his helmet’s lights. There aren’t any signs of the Galra, but somehow that doesn’t do much to reassure him. But if they’d seen a trail of blood or heard Keith’s screaming, they’d surely be here by now. Right? 

Lance chooses to believe it for the moment. 

When he returns to Keith’s side, the tears leaking from his eyes are finally drying. He’s still breathing heavily, each gasp shuddering with pain, and his teeth are clenched and his brow is knitted. Lance feels his own brow furrow even more, and he gently brushes some loose locks of inky hair from his comrade’s face. 

Keith’s eyes flutter open. “That hurt like a bitch,” he gasps. 

Lance crosses his legs and settles down for a long stay. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” The red paladin swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “You probably saved my life. Thanks.”

Lance only smiles minutely. He still doesn’t know how to take praise from Keith. 

“Did we lose them?”

“I think so.” He looks uneasily towards the entrance. “No sign of them yet, anyway.”

“Thanks for getting us outta there. Sorry I…wasn’t any help.”

“It’s fine, mullethead. I’ll forgive you this one time.”

“How generous.” Keith’s hands are drawn back to his side, clamping over his wound protectively. He pants some more, lets his eyes close again. 

“You okay?” Lance asks, worry curling sourly in his gut. 

“For having a hole in my stomach, yeah, I guess so.” His speech is slurring.

Lance pats him heavily on the shoulder. “Stay awake, buddy. They’ll come get us soon.” 

“Uh huh.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _Sad agony klance idea. While on a planet with air that isn't breathable to humans, Lance's helmet breaks from a battle with just him and Keith around. Before he blacks out from the lack of oxygen, Lance feels his helmet get pulled off, then put back on. When he's able to think and see clearly he realizes with terror that Keith gave him his helmet and is currently loosing consciousness. How this ends is up to you. Do they both live or die?_
> 
> warnings: suffocation

Lance’s head is throbbing horrifically when he blinks his eyes open. He sees strange black spires crisscrossing above him like the threads of a giant spiderweb and feels himself going crosseyed as his vision tries and largely fails to focus. Where…?

He tries to regulate his breathing as memories begin to worm their way back into his brain. There was a battle. There were lots of robots to fight. He and Keith got cut off from the group. Something… Something bad happened. Something _really_ bad. Remembering what is like trying to remember a dream. There’s a feeling in his gut, a weight in his mind, lingering bad emotions from whatever had transpired. If it wasn’t for the terrible pain in his skull and the fact that he doesn’t know where he is, he would probably conclude he’d just had a nightmare. 

But he’s waking up, slowly, and his senses are coming back to affirm that he is definitely not dreaming. Something is very, very wrong. He can feel sharp rocks digging into his body through the flight suit, bruising pressure that lets him know he’s been lying here too long. He feels strangely woozy, too, which doesn’t make sense since he’s not upright or moving. It might have something to do with the agonizing headache. 

It’s not until he notices his breath fogging against the transparent mask of his helmet that it all begins to come back. He was fighting, fighting _hard_ , and the ground had given way under his feet. Something had caught his ankle and his head had slammed against one of those black spires. His mask had shattered and the atmosphere had suffocated him. And that’s… That’s the last thing he remembers. 

But he’s breathing now, and quite easily. That’s where the disconnect is. He distinctly remembers not being able to breathe before losing consciousness, watching Keith’s eyes grow wide with fear as he clawed at his throat and gasped like a fish out of water—

And that’s when he remembers _Keith_. He should be here, shouldn’t he?

With a groan, Lance forces himself upright, wincing at the pain that stabs straight through his temples. It takes a moment for his vision to focus, and he has to will down a swell of nausea, but as soon as he feels somewhat oriented he frantically takes in his surroundings. 

The planet is just as he remembers—nothing more than black rock and an ashy sky. The only thing different is the red paladin sitting beside him, his posture slumped and leaning heavily against the craggy cliffside.

He’s not wearing a helmet.

Lance goes rigid. “Keith?”

He doesn’t respond. His head is low, chin nearly touching his chest and bangs covering his face. 

“Keith?!” Lance scrambles forward, hands scrabbling for purchase on the unforgiving terrain, and barely registers the pain of moving so suddenly as he desperately drags himself toward his teammate. “Keith! Keith, answer me!”

Keith doesn’t move an inch. 

Lance grabs his shoulders and shakes him hard, but his body is limp and unresponsive. He doesn’t even think as he takes Keith’s face in his hands and lifts it up and brushes aside locks of inky hair. 

When he finally sees his face, his stomach bottoms out. Keith’s eyes look bruised, and his lips are tinged with blue. Lance doesn’t need to check to know that he’s not breathing. He also doesn’t need to remove the helmet to know what color it is. 

He tugs off a glove and presses his fingers to Keith’s neck. There’s a pulse—thready, weak, but it’s there. 

How much time does he have before it stops?

He checks the radio, but it only turns up static. He tries reaching out to his Lion, but doesn’t feel a response. The canyon walls are too high to fly out of with a single jetpack—not under the weight of two bodies. 

The reality of the situation begins to dawn on him—that, this time, there is no getting out. Lance suddenly feels very, very cold. 

Is Keith… Is Keith going to _die_ here? 

No. He won’t let that happen. He won’t let Keith sacrifice himself. 

_If anyone on this team is going to die, it should be me_. He feels surprisingly calm as he takes off the helmet. 

Just as he’s placing it over Keith’s head, he hears a familiar roaring. The ground begins to quake, and rocks scatter down the cliffside, and a wind whips up and swirls down into the canyon. And then the Red Lion is there, and Lance bursts into tears. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _What about a captured klance where they're both in separate holding cells, and Lance is injured from either torture or being forced to battle, or the battle before. And Keith watches him pass out in his cell without being able to help at all_
> 
> this is set in a fantasy au (the same as my fic "Claim a Warrior's Heart"). 
> 
> warnings: blood

Keith didn’t know how long it had been since he’d last moved. He sat in the corner of the dim, grimy cell with his legs drawn up and his arms resting on his knees, gaze trained on a cluster of small stones embedded in the dirt. Night had fallen; he could deduce that much. The shadows had grown long across the hall, and now all he could see of them were cast by torchlight. Every time he heard footsteps, he had to resist the urge to lunge for the bars and press his face against them to see who was coming. 

His hands were bloodied, split at the knuckles and scraped on the palms. His torso was littered with blossoming bruises from the toes of boots that had connected with it, and they ached, but he didn’t pay them any mind. He’d been beaten for resisting, but he hadn’t spouted off the way Lance had. That was why he was in this cell, and Lance was off Fyra-knew-where, no doubt getting the hell beat out of him. 

He told himself he wasn’t worried, but that was a lie. These Galra were brutes. He’d already seen and felt what they could do. At least they didn’t know who he and Lance were—not yet, anyway. And hopefully they would be broken out of here before they had a chance to wear them down enough to find out. 

Keith dug stones out of the ground and practiced tossing them at a divot. The dull click of rock hitting rock was strangely grounding. He tried to think of other things—of his companions, of Regnis, of their quest—anything other than Lance. It wouldn’t be long before they were rescued. He was sure of it. 

He paused in his stone-throwing momentarily and listened for movement anywhere near his cell. Nothing. Only silence, except for the crackle of torch-flame and the wind whistling by the windows. He opened his palm and called upon the living energy resting in his bones, then watched with satisfaction as a sliver of flame snapped to life in his hand. It was small, nothing obvious, but it helped to calm his mind a bit. He turned his hand and the flame wove and danced between his fingers like a living thing. It had been a while since he’d last used his magic, and it was beginning to make his skin itch. He felt a little closer to Regnis when he used it. He missed her.

When he clenched his fist, the flame was snuffed out. He didn’t dare use it for too long, lest he be seen by his captors. That would ruin everything. He was growing more and more restless, though, the longer that Lance was gone. And worried. His fellow paladin had already been injured when they dragged him off, and he didn’t even want to imagine what they had been doing to him all this time. He might have to use his flame more than he wanted to in order to get them out of here, if it came down to it. 

A loud clanging echoed down the hall. Keith’s ears perked up instantly. There were several sets of heavy footsteps and the sound of something being dragged coming in his direction. His heart began to beat faster—this had to be the guards bringing Lance back. He forced himself to stay where he was, hardly daring to look up through the tangle of his bangs when they came into view. 

His heart leapt into his throat. 

The Galra dumped a flaccid form onto the floor of the cell opposite his, where it crumpled in a heap and didn’t move. The guards didn’t say a word as they slammed the door shut and locked it, and thankfully didn’t spare Keith a glance as they stalked back down the hall.

Keith stayed still and listened intently until their footsteps faded away and the heavy creaking of the dungeon door rang down the corridor. When silence permeated it once more, he scrambled up from his position and flung himself to the bars. “Lance! Hey, are you okay?”

At first he was terrified that Lance wouldn’t respond at all, but relief flooded through him when the dirty, bloodied form began to stir and shift weakly on the ground. The paladin squirmed for a bit before finally pushing himself up on trembling arms.

Keith’s breath caught in his throat. There was so much blood. It covered Lance’s shirtfront. He’d been stripped of his cloak and leather jerkin, leaving him in nothing but the thin tunic he’d had since the day Keith met him, but it was ruined now. He’d obviously been whipped, but the fabric was so heavily saturated with blood that Keith couldn’t tell what was skin and what was shirt. It was a miracle that Lance was conscious, let alone able to move. 

“Holy Thel,” he breathed as Lance braced himself against the bars of the cell. 

The blue paladin gave a tense smile, and his teeth were stained red. “They… They did a number on me this time.”

Keith gripped his own bars in a white knuckled grip, magic flaring hotly under his skin in response. Every instinct was telling him to get to Lance immediately to tend to him, but his flames wouldn’t be enough to get him out of the cell on their own. “What are your injuries? Give me a list.”

“Dunno, honestly,” Lance murmured, resting his head against a bar. He closed his eyes as a grimace against what must be a bad wave of pain swept over him. “Everything hurts at the moment. Kinda hard to give specifics.”

Keith’s jaw clenched. “Well, try. I need to make sure you’re not going to die soon.”

“I won’t. They made sure of that.” He coughed a few times, features twisting in agony. “I think…several of my ribs are cracked. They made sure to whip me until I couldn’t stand. I think they broke my hand—” he held up his left hand and even from across the hall Keith could tell several fingers were indeed broken “—and my head got knocked pretty good a few times. Other than that…everything’s just sore.”

Keith closed his eyes, trying hard to reign in his anger, his frustration at not being able to do anything. “Alright… Alright. We can deal with this. You just have to make sure you stay awake until we’re out of here, okay?”

“Dunno if that’s gonna happen,” Lance muttered wearily, letting his eyes remain shut. “Everything’s really…really spinning right now.” Even as he said it, his grip on the bar slipped and his head dipped a bit more. 

“Don’t!” Keith snapped. “You have to stay awake, Lance. Uh… Try using your magic. Can you make a light?”

Lance shook his head. “Can’t. S’not there right now. You know I’m not…not good with it like you are.”

“Not _yet_.” Keith tried hard to keep his voice light. “You just need more practice.”

“Mm.” He slid further down toward the ground. “My head hurts. M’real tired, Keith.”

“ _Stay awake_ ,” he demanded with an intensity that started even him. His face was pressed against the bars now as he unconsciously tried to get as close to his fellow paladin as physically possible. 

Stars, this was bad. Lance might not be in danger of dying—he’d wager some twisted druid magic took care of that—but he was still losing blood, and had an obvious head injury. Keith had seen consequences of both those things before. 

With a quiet groan, Lance finally slumped onto the grimy dungeon floor. Without thinking, Keith sent a wave of hot energy billowing from his palms and into the cell. He saw the magic rustle Lance’s hair and clothes, but the boy didn’t stir again. He slammed his fists against the bars with enough force to make a _clang._ This was infuriating, and he was absolutely helpless to do anything about it. He’d have to carry Lance back to the rest injured and bleeding and unconscious. The blue dragon was going to throw a fit. 

His hands gripped the bars again, and he lowered his head in a prayer. _Regnis, please, get us out of here._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _"please don't die in my lap. i'm begging you." shiro and sam with matt, who was fighting alongside the rebels when he was caught in a bad explosion and 3/4 of his leg is beyond saving_
> 
> warnings: vomit, mention of amputation

It didn’t take long for Matt’s breakfast to make a reappearance after he got a good look at his leg. Shiro had been trying his best to keep him from seeing it, pushing Matt’s face into his chest with one large hand on the back of his skull, but in the end Matt ended up catching a large glimpse of it anyway. And then he started heaving the contents of his stomach right onto his and Shiro’s laps. 

He’s shaking violently by the time he’s done. Shiro’s hand is on his forehead, holding back shaggy locks of hair, and his father’s hand is rubbing large circles on his back. 

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Shiro says soothingly in his ear. It’s a lie, and they all know it, but it’s comforting nonetheless. 

Matt gasps loudly, raising one hand to wipe away the remnants of vomit from his chin. “My leg—”

“I know.” Shiro tangles his fingers into Matt’s hair and draws his head to his chest once more. “I know, but you’re gonna be alright. This is nothing.”

Except it’s most definitely _something_ , and Matt can tell from the way Shiro’s voice trembles just the slightest amount and the way it’s an octave higher than his usual speaking tone, giving away his uncertainty with probably more clarity than he realizes. He’s _scared_ and that’s scaring Matt even more than the sight of his gruesome injury. 

“Help is on the way, Matt,” his dad says. Matt’s left hand is being held tightly between his father’s palms. They’re cool and steady, a solid comfort in the turbulence his world has become. 

This doesn’t phase Sam the way it would have a year ago, Matt muses. He wouldn’t exactly say his father is cut out for this kind of lifestyle; he’s a scientist, not a soldier. But surviving the Galra prisons and camps must have prepared him for something like this. They had only been reunited for a few weeks now, after Matt’s extraction team had helped to free the camp he was being held in, but Matt could definitely see the change. He’s sure it goes both ways. Space wars change a person, he reckons. 

All that to say, he’s impressed with how calm and in-control his dad is managing to be right now. Even more so than Shiro. Sam had been the one to call for the medic when he’d seen Shiro cradling his son in the wreckage of the explosion, and he hasn’t left Matt’s side since. Matt is glad. Having his father beside him is a source of much-needed strength and comfort. 

Which is really good, because he’s in _agony_. The explosion shook him to his core. His ears are ringing and pain is shooting through his skull like bolts of lightning. He’s covered in burns that make his skin feel too tight. His leg is strangely numb, though something about it feels distinctly _not right_. He doesn’t know if he would call it pain, but that just might be his own mind shielding him from an agony he can’t even imagine. It feels very, very wrong. He does know that there won’t be any saving it at this point. 

And, oh, god, he’s getting dizzy now. He can’t tell if it’s the blood loss or the trauma or something else, but it hits him like a tidal wave, and if he wasn’t currently being held against Shiro’s body he most certainly would’ve fallen over. 

“Think m’gonna pass out,” he mumbles weakly against black paladin armor. He can only hope it was loud enough for them to hear. 

Judging by the alarm that suddenly flashes across Sam’s face, it was. His dad leans closer, brow wrinkling in urgency. “No, Matt, stay awake. You’ve got a head injury, so you can’t sleep yet. Keep your eyes open, okay?”

Matt groans. He doesn’t _want_ to. He’s so…so dizzy, and he hurts, and the chaos still raging around them is disorienting. He wants the world to be still, so closing his eyes seems like a good option. 

Until he’s shaken roughly and Sam is saying, “ _Matthew!_ ” in a cautionary tone that’s similar to the one he used to use when Matt was young and about to do something disobedient. This feels a lot more urgent, though, and holds significantly more fear. 

“Matt, don’t! Please, don’t fall asleep.” That’s Shiro. And, wow, Matt has never heard him sound so terrified before. “Please don’t die in my lap. I’m begging you.”

Die? Is that what they think is about to happen? “M’not gonna die,” he slurs. And he won’t. He only _just_ got reunited with his family, with Shiro. There’s no way he would leave so soon—that’s ridiculous.

There’s a pronounced silence above him, and even in his muddled state of mind he can tell that something is passing between Sam and Shiro. There’s no way to tell what it is. 

He doesn’t want to disappoint them. He wants to do what they’re telling him to do. It feels important. He _knows_ it’s important, but he can’t fight the encroaching blackness on the edges of his vision. His strength is depleted. But Shiro and his dad are there. They won’t let anything bad happen to him. He trusts them. So he closes his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: _YESS MATT IS HERE AND I’M GIDDY AND HAPPY but as for a prompt what if when Pidge found him in that place he was in, he was actually pretty sick? So she has to defend him or help him get better or just keep him from getting worse while she takes him back to the castle?_

 “This must be some kind of spy facility,” Pidge mutters, eyes taking in the geometric patterns and fluctuating levels of an unfamiliar orange-tinted screen. 

There isn’t any more time to decipher what the data could mean, though, as pounding footsteps suddenly approach and a masked figure reflected in the screen flings itself directly towards her. 

With a gasp of surprise, Pidge rolls away just in time to dodge a spinning staff that the figure swipes at her. She’s on her feet again in less than a second, sprinting for a column and launching herself backwards off of it with a boost from her jetpack. She’s aware of her pursuer coming after her again, swinging the staff with skill, but they seem…a bit slow. She should be able to take care of them without much trouble. 

As she descends to the floor and the figure spins to face her, she throws out her whip. Her enemy blocks it with their staff, wrapping the cord around it and pulling her to the ground. They charge again, stabbing the butt of their weapon straight down at her chest, and with more force she’s sure it would have been a powerful move. But their movements seem strangely sluggish and weak, like they don’t have enough energy to put the force needed behind them to make them especially threatening. Maybe she caught them while they’re tired. 

She rolls away again and the figure towers over her, raising the staff above their head with two hands. Pidge is sure she sees their arms shaking.

“What have you done with my brother?!” she yells.

They hesitate at the question. Pidge doesn’t think; she takes advantage of the moment and flings her whip at the masked head, hitting them squarely in the face and earning a pained grunt. The mask goes flying and the person falls to their knees. Bayard reverting to the katar, she launches herself at them again, aiming a powerful swing directly at the head. 

And then they turn, and Pidge sees their face for the first time. 

_Matt_.

Somehow she stops her momentum. Somehow the sight of wide, familiar eyes freezes her in place.

It’s… It’s Matt.

It doesn’t seem real. For so long,  _years_ , she’s dreamed of seeing his face again. And now it’s…he’s right in front of her and it doesn’t seem  _real_. Honey brown eyes, pale skin marred by a long, thin scar, wheat-colored hair that’s longer and limper than she remembers but it’s still… Oh, god, it’s  _him_. 

_It’s him. He’s alive, he’s here. I found him._

He’s looking at her with an expression that probably mirrors her own. Eyes wide, mouth agape, chest heaving with labored breaths, disbelief coloring every feature. 

“Pidge…?” he whispers hoarsely, like he hardly dares to believe it.

“Matt?” she echoes. 

He stands, slowly and with difficulty, stumbling a bit, and she can’t take her eyes off of him. Likewise, he doesn’t seem to be able to look away from her, either. For a few long moments, she stares at him and he stares right back.

And then it’s like they reach the same conclusion at the same time. His face crumples with emotion as tears gather in her own eyes, and they’re falling into each other’s arms.

Pidge weeps. He’s warm and solid beneath her arms, tangible and real and so very  _alive_. His ribcage hitches with sobs and any minute she expects to wake up and find this is a dream. She’s had this dream so many times. But she’s never been able to  _feel_  this much, to touch the gritty fabric of his clothes or smell the sweat and faint mustiness emanating from him. His voice has never been this clear and perfect. 

She found him. He’s here.  _He’s here._  

She squeezes her eyes shut and tears pour down her cheeks in rivulets. “Oh my gosh,” she gasps. “Ever since the Kerberos mission… They said you were dead, but I knew in my heart that you  _weren’t_.”

His arms tighten around her shoulder. “I can’t believe you  _found_  me,” he says, and his voice is the most wonderful thing she’s ever heard. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

He pulls back then, hands coming up to touch the sides of her helmet. He smiles—he  _smiles_ —the brightest, sweetest smile she’s ever seen, even as his own tears pour down his face. 

She can’t help but return it. “The thought of you and Dad kept me going, inspired me to  _do_  the impossible.”

“Okay,” he says with a bit of a laugh, hands moving down to her shoulders. “But seriously, how’d you’d get this far into space?”

“It’s a long story,” she says, ducking her head. She opens her mouth to say more, but then Matt coughs. 

And he keeps coughing. It seems like he’s trying to suppress them, but they still sound wet and painful. A hand comes up to cover his mouth and his face screws up as if he’s in pain, and he begins to sink to the floor. 

“Matt?” Pidge braces her hands on his shoulders and tries to support him as they both kneel on the ground. 

The coughing passes after a few more moments and suddenly he looks so tired— _exhausted_. And she realizes now that those slow, sluggish movements she’d noticed (and planned to take advantage of) during the brief fight were  _Matt’s_  slow, sluggish movements. And that’s…probably not normal.

Something is wrong with him.

She hadn’t noticed before, but now that the rush of disbelief and overwhelming joy from their reunion is wearing off, it’s obvious just how _not okay_ her brother is. His eyes are bloodshot and glazed over, ringed with deep fatigue. His entire expression is a bit dazed, and now that she’s really looking, his cheeks seem too flushed. He looks pretty terrible. 

And he’s shaking. Full-body, head-to-toe trembling. 

Concern quickly begins to override the multitude of other emotions currently filling her. “Matt? Are you okay?”

For a moment, he looks surprised at the question. “Huh?” Then, slowly, he lifts a hand up and stares as it trembles, like he’ll find the answer in his open palm. “Oh. I’m…” Another cough rips through him and he rubs at his eyes. “I’m just a little under the weather right now. I’m okay, though, don’t worry.”

Pidge’s brows draw together. She reaches up to move his bangs aside and can feel unnatural heat through the fabric. “Oh, you’re burning up,” she says, cupping his face in both hands. 

She’s pulling up her wrist monitor, intending to scan him for viruses, but he stops her with one hand. “I think it’s Ryskan fever.” His voice is so ragged, so weary. “It’ll suck for a little while, but it’s not dangerous.”

“Are you sure?” She searches his face intently for evidence of the contrary. 

“Yeah.” He smiles, but it isn’t particularly reassuring. 

“What a touching reunion,” a deep, gravelly voice says from the shadows.

Pidge and Matt both jump and spin to face the direction it came from, nerves suddenly alight. 

“Who are you?” Pidge demands, summoning her bayard from her armor.

There’s a dark, menacing figure shrouded in the darkness of the tall room. While Pidge can’t decipher any features, he’s obviously big and most likely powerful. She’s not intimidated. She can’t afford to be now—Matt is here, and he needs her protection.

“Who I am is not important,” the stranger says. “I am here to collect the bounty on your brother Matt. But a paladin of Voltron and the Green Lion? What a day.”

Pidge drops into a fighting stance. “Stand back, Matt.”

But Matt, once again, mirrors her perfectly, readying his staff and saying, “Stand back, Pidge,” at the exact same moment. 

She looks at him in surprise for a mere second before hardening her gaze into a glare. “No, I’ll take care of this. Get somewhere safe.”

He blinks. “But—”

“It’s not up for debate!” she yells. “You’re in no condition to fight right now, so let me handle this! I’ll be fine, trust me.”

He must see the resolve in her eyes—either that or he must be really be feeling awful, because after a brief hesitation, he nods reluctantly and lowers his staff. God, he looks so tired. 

Her focus is ripped away from him quickly as the bounty hunter growls and charges forward, flinging off his cloak to reveal a muscled, reptilian body and two whips sparking with purple electricity. 

Pidge activates her jetpack and leaps into the air as the weapons come slinging towards her. She immediately slings her own bayard back towards him, but he narrowly dodges it. She’s hoping this will be a quick fight, but this guy looks tough, and he wields those whips with enough skill for her to know he’s had a _lot_ of practice. She’s going to have to think her way around this one. 

As she descends back to the ground, bolts of agony suddenly light up every nerve and her body convulses. She screams without meaning to, and gravity slams her to the ground as her jetpacks gives out. 

For a moment, she can’t get up. Her muscles ache and twitch with the residual electricity and it takes a while before she can push herself up on trembling arms. She grunts with frustration; she has to get up, has to protect Matt. He’s weak and vulnerable and—

“Stay away from my sister!”

She freezes. _Oh, please don’t tell me…_

When she looks over her shoulder and sees a cloaked figure stumbling towards the bounty hunter, dread fills her stomach. “Matt, stop!”

But of course he doesn’t. He charges right in like he doesn’t care what happens to him. He probably doesn’t. He’s probably in the same mindset she is—to protect family at all costs. 

As he swings his staff down, the hunter spins his whips effortlessly to create a shield, and Matt’s weapon glances right off. “You’re both worth more to me alive, but I’ll take something over nothing,” he growls. 

The whips come up again and he flings them forward with impressive strength. Pidge watches in horror as they both wrap around Matt’s shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides, and electricity courses through his thin body like lightning. 

Pidge won’t soon forget the scream that comes from his mouth. 

With a growl, she finally gets to her feet and shoots her bayard at the lizard-like alien with renewed strength. Matt’s down; she can see his limp body on the floor in the corner of her eye, and this time, she won’t let this guy have another chance to touch him. 

Her bayard lodges itself exactly where she wanted it to—in a beam on the other side of the room. As the alien turns to smirk at her for what he probably thinks is a mistake on her part, she uses the grappling line to propel herself at him feet-first. She lands a solid kick to his head, and swings herself up onto a low beam. 

He takes a moment to recover, and growls again. “You’ll have to do better than that!” His whip wraps around a beam and suddenly he’s joining her in the rafters. He charges her again, and it quickly becomes apparent just how much stronger he is. She’s agile enough that she’s not overpowered, but his blows are too forceful for her to withstand much of. 

One particularly powerful flick of his whips sends her toppling off of the beam, plummeting to the ground below. She’s able to activate her jetpack and prevent the impact, but the bounty hunter is right on her tail. She sprints away from him, mind racing frantically for a solution to this battle. She can’t overpower him, but maybe there’s some way his electric whips can be used against him.

As if reading her mind, Matt’s raspy voice suddenly calls out, “Pidge! The panel!”

She knows what he’s talking about immediately. Without even blinking, she reaches out to rip off the cover of a panel in the wall as she passes it. And no sooner has she removed it than the hunter’s whip comes lashing out and snags on the uncovered machinery. 

“What?!” he roars, yanking on it unsuccessfully. 

“ _Hey!_ ” Matt yells from the other side of the room. 

Once again, Pidge can only watch helplessly as her brother comes running right into the fight. She doesn’t have time to react before the alien is flinging his free whip at him. He’s able to duck out of the way, and the whip wraps itself around a metal pillar instead. He jams his staff into the ground, pulls it back with strength Pidge didn’t think he still possessed, and lets it go. It collides with the line of the whip, and the bounty hunter yells as he’s electrocuted, crackling bolts jumping over his body. 

Pidge seizes the moment. She hurls herself at him, pulls back her bayard, and throws the hardest punch of her life. It’s enough force to send the hunter flying back, and he lands on the ground, unconscious. 

She doesn’t move from her position for a few moments, just stands and tries to catch her breath.

It’s over. They’re safe, for the moment.

And then Matt groans, staggers, and falls to his knees. 

“Matt!” Pidge grabs his shoulders to stabilize him before he slumps over. “Are you okay?”

He coughs harshly, a wet crackling sounding in his lungs, and pushes his knuckles into his eyes again. “…Relatively.”

She glowers. “I told you to stay out of the fight. You said you’d stay out of it.”

“You were in trouble. He hurt you; I couldn’t stand by and watch.”

Pidge opens her mouth to scold him again for scaring her, for acting so recklessly when they’d only just found each other after so long, but something stops her. She isn’t in a place to berate him for this, because she would have done exactly the same thing in his position. Plus, there are more important things to worry about right now. 

“You haven’t changed,” she says. “You’re still an idiot.”

Matt laughs a little, which then turns into another bout of coughing. He doubles over and presses a hand to his chest, groaning. “You might have a point.”

Pidge frowns. “We need to get you out of here.” She pulls his arm over her shoulders and they stand slowly.

Matt sways. “I can’t just—I can’t just leave. I have a job here.”

“Are you nuts? You can’t work right now, Matt. You’re coming with me.” 

He doesn’t protest any further as she leads him out, and she doesn’t know if it’s because he knows she’s right or if he’s just too out of it to say anything more. 

He leans on her heavily as they make their way to the exit, and though he’s wearing what seems to be several layers of clothes, she swears she can feel the heat of his fever through them. A glance at his face shows that he’s sweating a lot, too.

A strange mix of emotions swirl within her. She’s still stunned that she’s found him—after almost two years of vague leads and dead ends and tracking and decoding and what felt like endless _searching_ , it’s actually all paid off. She’s sure she’ll spend a long time just _staring_ at him, ensuring that he’s actually still here. 

Then there’s the fear that stems out of that disbelief. He’s here, but for how long? He said his illness isn’t serious, but his appearance says otherwise. Memories of being four years old and taking midnight trips to the hospital because Matt had gotten violently and unexpectedly sick flash through her mind, even though she hasn’t thought about those times in years. He hadn’t exactly been the healthiest boy when they were children, and although his immune system is up to par now, Pidge can’t help the dread that chills her breast at seeing him like this, especially after they’ve been separated for so long. 

But there’s relief and determination, too. Matt is with her now. She can take care of him. She can make sure he’s okay. And that’s exactly what she’s going to do.

 

—

 

He’s quiet on the trip back in the Green Lion. He’d ogled a little bit when she’d first brought him to where it was parked on the outskirts of town (cloaked, of course), but nowhere near as much as he would have if his brain wasn’t fogged up by fever. She resolves to show him around it properly when he’s well. For now, she mostly just listens to him cough from his spot on the floor near the accelerator chair. 

When the Lion lands and the hatch opens, the team converges around the entrance with hopeful smiles on their faces. She’s glad to be back with them, and gladder still that, this time, she can give them good news. 

Well, not quite as good as she hoped. Matt’s condition is inexplicably deteriorating at a concerning pace, though Pidge suspects it has something to do with the fact that he obviously overexerted himself in the fight on top of getting electrocuted. He’s slumped against the wall, shivering in his cloak. Sweat dots his brow and a look of discomfort mars his face. 

“Matt,” Pidge prompts softly. “We’re here. Wake up.”

His brow furrows, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Huh…?”

“We’re at the Castle of Lions. Let’s get you in bed, okay? Can you stand?”

He blinks heavily several times before her words seem to register. “Ah, yeah.” Then he pulls in a sharp breath and presses his palms into his eyes. 

Panic rolls through Pidge’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“My eyes.”

“Your eyes?”

“Hurt.” 

She pulls his hands away from his face. “Open them?”

He squints through a heavy grimace and she can just barely see how red and irritated they look, even more so than before. 

Her anxiety ramps up another few notches. “We need to get to the infirmary, _now_.”

It takes several tries, but she helps Matt rise slowly from the floor and steadies him with an arm around his waist. He coughs violently as they make their way down the ramp, entire body hitching with the force. He sags against her bonelessly and it takes considerable effort on her part to keep him upright. 

Everyone is waiting when they finally emerge. The mice run to greet her but she’s regrettably too preoccupied to greet them back. She gives her team a sad smile. “Hey, everybody.”

The sight of her practically carrying an unfamiliar body out of her Lion predictably makes them all pull up short with surprise. Their smiles disappear and are replaced with alarm. 

“Pidge? Who is this?” Allura asks. 

“My brother. Matt.” She adjusts her grip on him as he slips a little further. She’s too small for this. “Look, I’ll explain everything later, but he needs help.”

Towards the back of the group, there’s a soft murmured, “Matt?” and then Shiro is pushing his way past Allura and Coran, a look of hope and concern on his face. He hesitates only a second before rushing to them and pulling Matt’s weight from her, effortlessly scooping him into his arms. He studies Matt’s face briefly before turning his worried gaze to Pidge. “You found him.” 

She nods. 

Shiro looks like he’s struggling to believe it, to come to terms with the fact that he’s holding his long-lost friend in his arms, but it’s not a moment before his mouth forms a straight, determined line. “Let’s get to the infirmary.”

 

—

 

No one asks for the story until Matt’s settled in a bed and his vitals are being monitored. 

“It does appear to be Ryskan fever,” Coran muses as his eyes scan the data.

“What is that?” Shiro asks, deep concern on his features. “Is it dangerous?”

“Not particularly, no.” He flicks through a few screens. “It’s a fairly common disease that manifests slightly differently in varying species. Unfortunately, from Matt’s case it seems to be more severe in human beings, but this is the first time I’ve seen it afflict one. It’s similar in Alteans, though not usually quite this debilitating—annoying, more than anything. But he’s displaying the same symptoms. It will probably take a while to recover from, but in a couple Spicolian movements he should be over the worst of it. Luckily, we have some medicine for it that can be administered through an injection.”

Pidge releases a long, noisy breath. 

Coran gives her a reassuring smile. “He’s going to be just fine, with a lot of rest. Don’t you worry.”

“Thanks, Coran.”

They move away from the bed, and she tells them what happened at the rebel base. She doesn’t mention the graveyard—yet, anyway. It’s probably information they’ll want to know at some point, but her emotions are still raw and that’s really not something she wants to revisit at the moment. Especially not with Matt lying unconscious in the infirmary. For now, she recounts the fight with the bounty hunter and all she’s learned about the freedom fighters. The rest can come after Matt’s recovered. 

“You did a great job, Pidge,” Shiro says. “I’m proud of you.”

She nods. “I’ll feel better about it once he’s better.”

“Me too.” There’s a vague wistfulness to Shiro’s face and voice, enough to make Pidge wonder what he’s thinking about. 

They haven’t talked about Matt a lot together—she knows Shiro’s missed him, but now she’s wondering exactly how close they’d been before the abduction. He seems more shaken up about seeing her brother again than she would have expected. 

“Pidge?” Hunk says cheerily. “Are you hungry? I was about to start dinner before you got here.”

She smiles softly. “Thanks, Hunk. But I think I’m gonna stay here for a little while.”

“I’ll bring you something, then,” he says with a light pat on her shoulder.

“Let us know if anything happens,” Lance says, more solemn than usual, before following Hunk out the door. 

“Coran and I had better get the castle ready to move again, now that we’re finishing up here,” Allura says. 

“Right,” Coran adds. “But I’ll be back here in a tick if you need me for any reason at all. Okay?”

“Okay.” Pidge gives him a smile too. “Thanks.”

Once they’re gone, she’s alone with only Shiro and her comatose brother. She releases a heavy sigh and sinks down in a chair next to Matt’s cot, suddenly extremely tired. 

“Are you alright?” Shiro asks in his fatherly tone. 

“Yeah. Just exhausted.”

“I think you should try to get some rest. Matt will be okay for a while.”

She shakes her head emphatically. Leaving Matt’s side right now is absolutely unthinkable. “I just got him back. I’m not going anywhere.”

Shiro huffs a breath out through his nose. “Okay. I won’t ask you to, then. But you need to take care of yourself too, alright?”

She folds her arms on the side of the bed and rests her chin on them. “Mhm.”

He briefly places a hand on her head. “I’ll come back to check on you in a little while.”

When the door slides shut behind him, Pidge’s thoughts become loud in the abrupt silence. She’s drained and weary from the rollercoaster she’d just been on, but her emotions have yet to settle. She won’t feel any kind of peace until she can talk to Matt about…well, _everything._ Where he’s been, what he’s been doing, if he knows anything about Sam. She wants him to know about what she’s been doing too. She wants to show him the castle, her Lion. 

That will have to wait a while, though. Mostly she just wants him to get better. 

For a while, she watches him sleep. He looks so much older, so worn and weary, but maybe that’s just the illness. She’d stripped him of his cloak and armor, leaving him in only the thin tunic and pants he was wearing underneath, and Coran had placed a strip of cooling fabric on his forehead to soothe the fever. 

But without anyone to talk to, the exhaustion eventually overpowers the lingering onslaught of emotion. When sleep comes, she doesn’t fight it.

 

—

 

“Pidge?”

She feels warm. Secure. Doesn’t want to move.

“Pidge.”

When she feels herself begin to move out of sleep, she groans and nuzzles her face deeper into her arms. She’s not ready to wake up. 

“Katie.”

That…isn’t normal. No one calls her Katie, ever. The only one who even knows that name is Shiro, and that’s definitely not Shiro’s voice. That means…

Her head flies up, glasses askew on her nose. “Matt?”

He’s awake. The cooling strip is gone from his brow, and he’s looking at her through groggy eyes, heavily-lidded and still bloodshot.

Pidge leans in closer. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

“I—” He breaks off into a coughing fit, his whole body straining under the force. “I’ve been better.”

She frowns and presses the back of her hand to his sweaty forehead. “I think that’s an understatement. You’re still burning.” 

He falls back against the pillow with a groan. “S’alright, this…this doesn’t last long. I knew a guy who had it once and it didn’t…last long.”

“Uh…about that.” When Matt looks at her curiously, she averts her gaze. “Coran—our advisor—says it looks like Ryskan fever is more severe in humans compared to other species. He says it’s likely that it’ll take you a while to get over it.”

Confusion spreads over Matt’s face for a second before he closes his eyes and sighs wearily. “Figures.”

“But you’ll be okay,” she’s quick to add, taking his hand. “You’re with us now. I’m here. I’m gonna take care of you.”

“Yeah.” He smiles shakily. “I’m so…so happy to see you, Pidge.”

That wave of emotions swells in her throat again and she desperately tries not to tear up. “I’m happy to see you too. You have no idea. I’ve been searching for you for so _long_.”

He makes a happy noise. “You always could be stubborn when you wanted t’be.”

She laughs. “Now we just gotta find Dad.”

“Right.” Matt closes his eyes again, looking ready to fall back asleep. Pidge is prepared to let him, maybe go see about the dinner Hunk mentioned, but a second later Matt’s eyes reopen. “Hey…am I delusional or…or was Shiro here earlier?”

Pidge grins. “Yeah, that was real. He’s here.”

Now the confusion’s back. “Wh…why? Why’s he here…?”

“He’s a paladin of Voltron, too. He’s worried about you.”

“Oh…”

“I’ll tell you all about it when you’re better.” She pats his shoulder. “For now, get some sleep.”

Matt’s eyes are closed once more. “Mhm.”

“I love you, Matt.”

He’s already asleep. 

She’ll tell him again when he’s coherent. She’ll tell him over and over and over. For now, she bends over and presses a kiss to his forehead, then finally leaves in search of a much needed dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> if you like paladin torture, come chat with me on tumblr @outtacommission!


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